I’ve kissed a lot of frogs and not one of them has turned into a prince.

As if the act of my sexual experience,

My search for love, needs the sheetlike covering

Of a line from fairy tale romance.

I didn’t seek out any frogs, I simply discovered they were amphibious

When, after running my hand up their thigh,

I find everything elongated, including their tongue

Reaching to score, once more, in their lilypad-hopping lives.

I paused to think before moving closer,

And I realized:

If it smells like a toad

And it looks like a toad

And it ribbets sweet nothings like a toad,

Then most likely this love will croak like a toad,

Beat up and smooched on the side of the road.

I’ve reached a climactic truth,

Longer lasting than any dick.

A prince should feel right inside,

And not just like a prick.

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